DC: I Became A Godfather

The Zeus Hotel—Gotham's crown jewel of decadence—stood like a temple to excess in the heart of the city. Unlike the steel and glass minimalism of Wayne Tower, this place was a shrine to ancient grandeur. Maybe it was the personal obsession of its eccentric owner, Maxie Zeus, but everything about the hotel screamed Greco-Roman luxury.

Twelve towering marble columns—gleaming white—lined the entrance, their faces adorned with intricately carved gods and heroes from myth. Inside, the hall was sheer opulence: golden accents, vast chandeliers, and a palatial dome ceiling that evoked the ancient arenas of Rome. If Wayne Tower was Gotham's modern heart, Zeus Hotel was its forgotten soul, draped in togas and drowning in incense.

"You said dinner," Edward Nygma murmured as he stood frozen at the entrance, his eyes darting over the towering columns. "I thought maybe…a diner. Maybe lamb steak at a corner joint…or Chinatown's sweet and sour pork. This place—this is…"

He didn't finish the sentence. His breath had already caught in his throat.

The Riddler looked painfully out of place here, wrapped in a thrift-store coat, his shoes still dusted with warehouse grit. This wasn't just luxury—it was another world.

Truth was, Nygma barely made enough as a precinct custodian to justify a sandwich from a mid-tier café. A place like Zeus? He wouldn't even walk past it on payday.

Most Gotham cops felt the same. The idea of spending their blood-and-sweat money in a palace built for gods felt…wrong. Dirty money went to gambling dens, strip clubs, or the occasional mob-run poker game. Zeus was reserved for CEOs and corrupt councilmen. So for someone like Adam, who'd only just made Nygma's acquaintance that morning, to bring him here?

Unthinkable.

"You're thinking too small, Ed." Adam waved a hand, grinning like he owned the place. "Eating's about environment. Arkham's full of greasy, shady factory types. All the capitalists over there eat like rats—plastic booths, flickering lights, roaches doing parkour across the walls."

He laughed, draping an arm over Nygma's shoulders.

"But you? You're different. You speak Thai, for Christ's sake. A mind like yours deserves more than smoke-filled diners and mystery meat burritos. You belong in marble halls."

The words were smooth, honeyed—but Adam's wallet was screaming.

He'd just dumped five grand in bribe money earlier that day. He wasn't exactly in a position to throw hundreds on filet mignon. But hell—he was broke anyway. A few more lice didn't matter to a dog already sleeping in the dirt.

More importantly, this was a strategy.

Adam knew his comics. He knew Edward Nygma better than the man knew himself.

Riddler craved recognition—needed to be seen, understood, admired. Every crime he ever committed left behind riddles, not out of arrogance but desperation. He hated being invisible. That's what had pushed him to the edge in the first place.

So this?

A lavish dinner in Gotham's most elite hotel?

It wasn't a meal. It was medicine for him.

Nygma practically glowed under the crystal chandeliers.

They took the elevator to the top floor—home of Zeus' famed revolving restaurant, where guests dined while the Gotham skyline slowly spun around them like a carousel of shadows. Waiters dressed in Roman centurion outfits greeted them with exaggerated bows.

"Good evening, sirs," one of them said, voice clipped and polite. "I'm afraid the dining room is fully booked tonight, unless…you have a hospitality voucher or a reservation?"

Adam didn't miss a beat.

He strolled up, smiling, and clasped the waiter's hand like an old friend. In the exchange, a neat roll of bills slipped into the man's palm so fast it could've been a magic trick.

"C'mon, man," Adam whispered, voice casual. "I'm Loeb's guy. Just want to have a quiet dinner with my friend. Maybe give the schedule another look, yeah?"

The centurion didn't even flinch. He weighed the bills in his palm—thumb brushing over the thickness—and suddenly smiled like they were long-lost brothers.

"My memory! Oh, what a day!" he said, slapping his own forehead. "Just remembered—a party from Naihe Island booked table twenty-four, but…no-shows, I believe. Very strange. Gentlemen—please enjoy."

Adam smirked.

Naihe Island. Also known as Alcatraz-by-the-Canal—a decaying landfill-turned-slum floating just outside Gotham's shipping district. No power. No plumbing. Home to homeless families and stray dogs.

Anyone claiming they reserved a table at Zeus from there might as well be a ghost.

The waiter knew it. Adam knew it. But no one said a word.

They were seated near the window, overlooking Gotham's neon arteries. Their table gleamed under low lighting. Wine flowed. The conversation was warm, easy—mostly local gossip, precinct news, and a few shared jokes.

Nygma looked like he was in heaven.

Until the shouting started.

From the entrance below, the noise pierced the polished ambiance. A man's voice—deep, thunderous—rose in anger.

Adam craned his neck and saw him: a huge Black man with a fighter's frame, round face, thick ears, and arms like carved stone. He was holding a waiter by the collar, barking with barely controlled rage.

"We made the reservation last week! Confirmed it last night! Don't play me, man!" the man bellowed. "This ain't some rundown bar. This is the Zeus Hotel. You can't treat people like this!"

The waiter's expression didn't flicker.

"Sir, as I've said—no reservation was received under your name. We recommend using verified payment methods. Phone calls are unreliable. Now please stop obstructing business."

Security began to close in—slow at first, but unmistakable. The kind of muscle that didn't care who you were if it meant breaking your ribs and dumping you out back in the alley.

The man trembled, not with fear, but restraint.

"Please," he said, lowering his voice. "My daughter… she got double A's. I promised her we'd come here, see the city from up high. She's been dreaming about it for weeks…"

That's when Adam noticed her.

A little girl, no older than seven, standing half-hidden behind the man's leg. Shy. Big-eyed. Her ponytail tied with faded ribbon. Tears pooled in her lashes, but she didn't cry. Not yet.

"Please," the man said again, red creeping up his face. "Just check again. The name's Floyd Lawton. I swear I called…"

Adam froze.

Wait. Lawton? Floyd Lawton?

His eyes snapped wide.

"…No way. No fucking way. I just stepped into Deadshot's origin story."